The Grace with Which You Move
by frankannestein
Summary: A collection of one-shots concerning my Inquisitor, Iralen Lavellan. Solas-centric.
1. Little Brother

_**A/N:** Welcome, Dear Readers! Thank you for taking the time to click on this story._

 _I'm extremely new to this fandom - I got "Inquisition" for my birthday at the end of September and I have not been able to stop playing it! I have not played the earlier games in the series. My Inquisitor is a rogue elven archer who accidentally got (me) irrevocably caught up in a Solasmance._

 _This first one-shot is my honest wish that the Token of the Packmaster accessory actually called a wolf companion for the Inquisitor that would follow him/her everywhere, help out in battle, and live in Skyhold._

 _Disclaimer: I am not a student of the elven language. Resources are few. I've chosen the Tel'Quessir dialect from the Forgotten Realms campaign of Dungeons & Dragons to flesh out my stories. Still, I will probably mess up. I beg your forgiveness and tolerance._

 _Also disclaimer: I have never tried to write in iambic pentameter before. My effort there probably fell a little short, too. (I'm so sorry, Solas!)_

 _"Little Brother" is dedicated to Blackpantherlilies. Panther, this is all your fault. If you hadn't raved so much about this game, I would never have considered playing it. But you were right. I fell in love with it. Thanks for inviting me into your fandom. Love you, girl!_

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 _ **Dragon Age: Inquisition**_

 **© BioWare**

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 **Solas:** _You train to flick a dagger or an arrow to its target. The grace with which you move is a pleasing side benefit. You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I._

 **Lavellan:** _So you're suggesting I'm graceful?_

 **Solas:** _No, I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate._

~ Dragon Age: Inquisition, 2014

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 **Little Brother**

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The black wolves of the Dales. Proud. Cunning. Bear-like. Perpetually hungry. They roamed in tight packs all over the Frostback Mountains, driven to unnatural aggression due to the disruptions in the Veil. Their ravenous howls announced the frosty dawn, echoing from peak to peak and causing a ripple of fear to pass through the ranks of Haven's survivors.

"Scout to the north," Solas had said. "Be their guide."

He hadn't offered advice on getting safely through the wolf-infested forest. The howling swirled around Iralen like flurries of snow. She stopped to rest, her feet ice-cold, her bruised ribs sending fire through her throat with each labored breath. She tried not to let it show, though she wasn't fooling Cassandra. The Seeker's eyes tracked her with suspicion, but there was respect there, too. Cassandra let her be, so long as she stayed where everyone could see her. Iralen held her sprained wrist close, fighting to keep her countenance as impassive as the rocks.

Glancing back the way she had come, she could see her fellow Chantry heretics straggling behind her like a trail of dead leaves in the snow. They carried their meager supplies on their backs, prodding complaining, laden gurns uphill, pulling the wounded and dying on makeshift travois. Weak human moans filled the early silence in between fresh wolf howls. The people marched doggedly along in her footprints, the exposed skin of their faces and hands red and chapped. It did not occur to any of them to question her assumed leadership. To them, she was a light in the darkness.

Iralen shuddered, reminded of the night Mother Giselle had begun singing. Mysterious Leliana had been first to harmonize with the Revered Mother, and then staid Cullen had joined in, his faith lighting up his tired face. Every Haven survivor knew the words to the hymn, though, of course, Iralen did not. They had knelt before her with clasped hands, their Lady Lavellan, so-called Herald of Andraste, singing a prayer to their Maker at her as if she was a living idol. As if she could answer their prayers.

If she hadn't been injured, would she have broken and run from them? The humans' devotion, poured out at her feet in glorious song, had physically hurt her, just as getting her legs kicked out from under her by an avalanche and falling in that damn hole had hurt. Her survival wasn't a miracle; she simply had, as Varric put it, the worst bad luck in the world. She didn't know their Andraste; Mythal, the great elvhen protector, was her patron god. "Lady" was a human term, hastily applied to a Dalish elf marked by a spell gone wrong.

Solas must have spotted the appalled tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over and betray her in front of everyone. "The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting," he had remarked.

 _Our people_. Her kinsman's wry courtesy had calmed her raging spirit, as it so often did. She did as he instructed, and the Inquisition blindly followed.

Solas was never far, choosing not to speak but present if she needed a nudge in the right direction. That comforted her a little. She was used to spending her days on her own in the forest, her clan's guardian, hunting for food and scouting safe places for them to set up the aravels – but he was the one who knew where they were going. Her scouting was a façade. The humans would not take kindly to following an apostate, never mind a "knife-eared" one. They would probably accuse him of leading them to their deaths. They might try to kill him.

Being the Herald of Andraste made all the difference.

The howls sounded again, eerie and dark in the soft blush of morning. Iralen knew their music well. She'd fought off black wolves from her snares before, and had the scars to prove it. She resumed her climb, briefly touching the amulet she wore under her hunter's coat, pressing it close. The metal disc stuck to the sweaty skin between her breasts, warm with its enchantment. As long as she wore the token, the wolves would not dare accost any member of her "pack," even if they were delirious enough to approach a pack as large as hers in the first place.

She happened to glance up. There, on a rocky outcrop bare of snow, a massive wolf warily watched her pass. It stood still as stone, the wind ruffling its thick black coat, its eyes slits in its fine-boned face. To her, it embodied the savagery of the vast, wintry mountains, a king of the hunt. After a tense moment it seemed to acknowledge her prior claim. Silent as a shadow, it turned tail and whisked out of sight. The howls died down.

In pain as she was, chilled to the bone, with the lives she dragged along behind her weighing her down, Iralen didn't think anything more of the wolves. She threw herself boldly into the Frostback wilderness, searching for signs of the abandoned fortress that Solas had found in the Fade.

On the long, hard trek north, pretending she knew exactly what she was doing, she surreptitiously checked for the other elf every now and again, afraid he might disappear like one of his spirits. Though she cursed herself for a smitten da'len, she couldn't help it, not after the way he'd frankly charmed her. Could he see her attraction to him written across her face as plainly as her vallaslin? Sometimes she thought so, when her eyes unconsciously sought him out and captured the fleeting, knowing upturn of his lips. Her only consolation was that his deep-set eyes were always turned aside as if hastily redirected, like she'd surprised him staring at her when he thought he could get away with it.

Then they reached Skyhold. The magnificent Ferelden fortress stood upon the cusp of the world, waiting, it seemed, for her. Solas, smiling but out of breath, leaned on his staff and let her walk through its welcoming gates first. An unexplainable swell of emotion kept her from speaking to him. It felt, strangely, as if he was _giving_ Skyhold to her. But how could that be? The castle was ancient, and he was a wandering forty-something apostate who spent much of his time asleep. Perhaps, since he seemed to be the only person alive who remembered Skyhold's existence, he viewed at it as his secret to share or keep as he saw fit.

Unaware of her confusion, the exhausted refugees swarmed in, dazzled by the grandeur of the old fortress and its promise of new haven.

Reeling from Skyhold's austere beauty – beautiful even in ruin – and the beating she'd taken not too long before, Iralen dizzily accepted her new role as Inquisitor, then set about making Skyhold her own. Warmth seemed to bleed from the stones, so she shucked her armor in favor of the lighter casual clothes she wore under it. Peace infused the very air. Each new door invited gleeful exploration; she'd always been naturally inquisitive. Absorbed as she was in her discoveries, a couple of hours passed before she found out what a handful of her soldiers had done.

She was examining what might once have been a garden, fertile enough to hold a patch of autumn amid the snowcapped peaks, when she heard an argument heating up. Her loosened braid bounced over her shoulder while she jogged toward the source.

It turned out to be a pile of lupine bodies, black fur matted with blood and dirt, dumped in the leaf-littered courtyard. Someone would undoubtedly render them into useable material later. In the remote borderlands between Ferelden and Orlais, they couldn't afford to waste anything. Several smaller bodies lay off to the side, each young throat slit in a way that ensured a quick death. It was a sad but necessary duty. Iralen couldn't argue that, even though it felt as though the violence had somehow defiled her new home.

One of her soldiers stood next to the grisly pile, his face conflicted, his hands full of a tiny bundle that whimpered, as pathetic as a suffocating flame.

"Have done with it already, Gerand," his partner snapped, her sunburned nose peeling under beetled brows. She put her hands on her hips. "Put the whelp out of its misery."

"I . . . can't," he admitted shamefacedly. "You do it, Missa."

He thrust the pup at her, but Missa leaped back as if she'd been scorched. "Maker's breath, what do you take me for? I've never killed one that small and I'm not about to start now."

" _You're_ the one who wants it dead!"

"We can't have blighting _wolves_ nesting in headquarters!"

"What's going on here?" Iralen asked quietly, and they jumped.

"Cleaning out the vermin, My La – Inquisitor," Missa reported promptly, though she tripped over Iralen's new title. She gestured to her left, where a pair of bleeding scouts were being tended by an ill-tempered alchemist. "They ambushed us, ser. Vicious beasts, they were. Might have had the water-sickness, but Master Adan says no."

"You'd want a Chantry sister to tend you if it was, and not me," Adan said darkly, tying off a bandage.

Missa cleared her throat. "Thought it best to make it clean as possible, given the circumstances."

"You did well," Iralen told her, and watched Missa's hairy brows relax. Then she looked at the whelp in Gerand's hands. "What's the story with that one, soldier?"

If Gerand had looked uncomfortable before, he looked downright miserable now, with Iralen's unwavering gaze fixed on him. She saw his eyes flick from her long ears, glittering with numerous piercings, to the delicate branching of her vallaslin, darker green than her irises, tattooed across her forehead, nose, cheekbones, and chin, and utterly alien to him. He swallowed noisily. "Well, Inquisitor, this one, you see . . . it's, well, it's white, ser."

"And?" she prompted, unable to hide her amusement with his completely inadequate explanation.

"Wolves are black, aren't they? Ain't never seen a white one before," he mumbled wretchedly. "Thought it might be god-touched, Your Worship."

Missa scoffed loudly, but didn't, Iralen noticed, come any closer.

"I can leave it outside, ser. It's too small to survive on its own, but maybe another pack will claim it . . ." Gerand said, but he lost steam at the end. He blanched when the pup in his hands whined once more and then stilled.

Iralen studied it. It wasn't much more than a ball of snowy fluff, but it was breathing. Asleep, most like, unaware that it was the sole survivor of its family's massacre. The amulet, hidden by her tunic, gave a pulse of recognition. The pup's pointed ears twitched as if listening to a mother's howl. That settled the matter. It was a white wolf whelp, nothing more spectacular than she herself was.

"Your orders, Lady Inquisitor?" Missa asked, apparently relieved to have a higher authority take the problem off her – or rather, Gerand's – hands.

Iralen sighed. Nothing was miraculous except for the depths of human superstition. "Give it here," she commanded.

Gerand complied only too happily, dropping the animal in her outstretched hands and then stepping hastily back. He tacked on a smart salute to cover his retreat.

"As you were," Iralen said. With the wolf pup cradled against her breast, where it could feel both her heart and the pulsing amulet, she swiftly departed.

If talk burst out like a wildfire over this behavior, her soldiers thankfully waited until she was out of earshot. Vivienne wasn't going to like this one bit. Iralen took the stairs two at a time, wanting to get under cover. Once she reached the cavernous main hall, however, she hesitated, unsure of where to go. There was debris everywhere, a draft blowing in from somewhere, and not a chair to be seen. She hadn't even been assigned quarters yet.

The pup stirred, as floppy and hot as a water bottle in her marked hand. He opened sky-blue eyes and stared at her. Curious. Trusting.

Iralen's heart melted.

"It's all right, toror'ai," she crooned at him, the phrase for "little brother" slipping out without thought. It gave him a name, one that was much too big for him but that he would grow into: Tor. Mountain, in the common parlance. "I won't let them hurt you. We'll figure something out."

"Lethallan," a smooth, familiar voice greeted, and she whirled around, embarrassed to have been caught talking to herself. Whatever Solas had been about to say, however, was lost when he saw her cradling the whelp. His eyebrow rose in polite incredulity. "What is _that_?"

"A refugee," she said. Then, deciding she may as well tell him the whole story, she added, "A pack claimed the castle as their territory and attacked my men. The wolves were killed, all but this one. I . . . couldn't leave him to fate."

"I see."

She went immediately on the defensive. It wasn't usual for him to be so monosyllabic. He was like a minnow in shallow water, constantly slipping through her fingers, quick to take offense but generous with praise when it suited him. His necklace, fashioned from the blackened, polished jawbone of a wolf, drew her eye.

"You see what, exactly?" she asked warningly.

Solas peered at the puppy with the oddest expression. Tor sniffed cheerfully at him, wagging his stubby tail as though greeting an older pack member.

"I see a white wolf," Solas said, as if his meaning was always so obvious, "an auspicious sign."

Iralen didn't try to unravel that one. ". . . What?"

"Skyhold has been many things to many," he said. He straightened to look her in the eyes and clasped his hands behind his back, courteous to a fault. "I never dreamed it would call his kind here. It has never been a refuge for them. The wolf is a trickster. Elusive. Clever, to be sure, but also quite loyal."

"You're speaking of Fen'Harel," Iralen said, barely keeping her statement from becoming a question. What did any of this have to do with her rather unconventionally adopting a wolf pup?

"Perhaps," he said sedately, inclining his head. His smooth voice turned mocking. "However, were you not taught that Fen'Harel was loyal only to himself? This little one is already changing allegiance. You could not have chosen a better guardian for Skyhold. Treat him well, Inquisitor."

A guardian. Like her. Like the statues of Fen'Harel that dotted the Dales, facing outward from Dalish camps, ever outward, to keep harmful spirits at bay.

"I was planning on getting him something to eat, actually," she said. _Pleased_ , she thought with relief. He was pleased. When she put her fingers close to Tor's glistening nose, he licked them eagerly, and then started chewing on the tips.

"Of course. I believe I can help with that," Solas said, his playful smile nearly taking her breath away. His enthusiasm always struck her out of nowhere, like a rogue's stealth strike. He spread his arms to show the way, almost, but not quite, touching her. "Come. The kitchens can spare some milk for him."

Iralen wasn't strictly listening. She longed to close the distance between them, to feel his lean body down the length of hers. She was pretty sure he wouldn't appreciate _that_ , however. He was so careful, so polite, so distant . . .

Startling her out of the distressing direction her thoughts had taken, Tor took her finger in his baby teeth and shook his head vigorously. He snarled as if he'd understood every word, sounding like an angry cricket.

Solas laughed. "It is the best milk in our demesne, I assure you. You have my word on that."

Tor gave a funny coughing yelp, and then sneezed.

"It's only for now, toror'ai," Iralen whispered in his furry ear. He thanked her by licking her nose. Solas smirked sideways at her, but she ignored her hahren. She stared into Tor's bright, intelligent eyes. A feral grin spread across her face. "Soon, you will hunt with me."

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 _ **A/N:** Please review, and let me know what you think! :3_

 _Humbly Yours,_

 _Anne_


	2. A Taste of Home

**A Taste of Home**

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Iralen slowly climbed the stairs toward her quarters, making use of the sun shining beyond the empty window to read a letter, written in a fine hand and lightly scented, signed by Josephine:

 _The issue of Thom Rainier has been settled, but his deception has had far-reaching consequences. Had we not used the Grey Warden treaties, we might not have found ourselves in so awkward a position. As it is, I receive daily messages from all quarters, demanding we make reparations. We must do something._

That wasn't the entirety of the problem, however. As her advisors so often did, Cullen had scribbled a note of his own at the bottom of Josephine's hot-pressed letterhead. His impatience with the ambassador showed clearly in every slash of his quill.

 _I'm sorry, did we embarrass a duchess at a soiree by stepping on her gown, or was the sky torn open and Haven beset by an ancient darkspawn magister? We needed the gold. We needed the men. You would have persuaded someone to part with them, with or without the treaties. We are not making reparations for doing what we had to do. What no one else could have done._

 _Don't forget, the Wardens were exiled from Southern Thedas, by the power of the Inquisition. We've seized their holdings. Anything owed them is now owed us._

If Iralen had not stopped by the war room to check on Leliana's current mission and picked up this letter, Josephine might have penned a politely snarky response, something along the lines of their duty to keep the Inquisition viable after Corypheus's defeat. A not-so-gentle chiding to remind the commander that they would attract more flies with honey than with vinegar, perhaps.

Iralen smirked humorlessly to herself. Human platitudes. She could imagine Sera's unhinged giggling. _What do you want_ flies _for? Pfft. Better luck with a leaking privy. Arrow, whoosh, done!_

For the most part, Iralen agreed with Josephine during their war council meetings. Cullen tended to dismiss petitions from the nobility as time-wasting. "Ridiculous." That was the word he liked to use. Josephine, however, sought and found the middle ground in so many cases. She petted. She flattered. She bribed. She traded favors. She danced circles around the opposition with a winsome smile. If she needed to push the Inquisition's influence, she managed to do it by convincing the other party that the Inquisition was servile.

They were in fact nothing of the kind. That was where Leliana came in, but Iralen's spymaster had so far refused to comment on this particular issue.

The air blowing through the broken window was frightfully cold. As much as Iralen had discovered she _liked_ being a woman as powerful as the Inquisitor, she missed being out there in the wilderness, answering to no one but her Keeper, in charge of no one but herself. If the explosion at the Conclave not happened, she would have quietly returned home, another invisible knife-ear passing from human memory. She raised her face to the wind, hoping that the chill would ease her headache, but all it did was whistle around her ears and numb her cheeks. Admitting defeat, she hurried around the last turn and shouldered her way through the door to her private staircase.

Once she reached her spacious quarters, where someone always kept a fire burning for her, Iralen allowed some of the Inquisitor to fall from her posture. She collapsed on her divan, and then she bent to remove her calf boots. She threw them, one after the other, in the direction of her wardrobe and listened with satisfaction to the _clump_ , _clump_ of them hitting the wall. She would rather not wear them, but when the humans worked so hard to provide their Herald with every worldly comfort, the Herald could hardly refuse. Besides, she was certain Sera's approval would plummet if she traipsed around without shoes like an elfy-elf and bam! Earwigs in Her Gracious Ladybits' sheets.

Sadly, not even bare feet helped Iralen's mood. The rug was too soft. Too uniform. Too far from the moist earth. She wearily scrubbed her hands over her forehead and temples. Blindly, she traced the symbol tattooed there, willing some of Mythal's wisdom to seep through her skin. She had not planned to exile the Grey Wardens. Especially after she forced Stroud to leave Hawke behind in the Fade, so that Stroud could help the Wardens recover. Then she'd realized they could not afford to ignore the flaw in the Warden mages which Corypheus had exploited. The look on Stroud's face when she had made her decree, banishing him and his entire order to the Anderfels! It would haunt her for years, she was sure.

As far as Josephine's concerns about the misused Warden treaties went, Iralen struggled with what to decide, which advisor to assign to the problem. It wasn't so much that she agreed with Cullen over Josephine. It was that she wasn't sure whether the Inquisition _should_ survive after it dealt with the Elder One.

But that was a thought she kept strictly to herself. She was the Inquisitor. Her doubt of her own institution's right to exist was a treason that overshadowed Black – or rather, Rainier's, ghastly lies.

Then there was Rainier himself. He was furious with her for having him returned to Skyhold from Val Royeaux. For using the Inquisition's influence to protect a criminal.

Well, let him be angry. She was the Inquisitor! Abruptly, Iralen marched to her desk. She wouldn't allow herself to regret what she had done for a man she considered a friend. A man who would always be Warden Blackwall to her. A _good_ man. She wrote out her orders for Cullen in her flowing Dalish script – _The treaties are ours. We move forward, not back_. – and then folded the letter into thirds. She tossed it aside, not wanting to look at it anymore.

It came to rest against a package that had not been there earlier. The package was wrapped in a royal oak leaf and tied with a dragon whisker vine. A wild rose bloom lay atop it, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. The whole ensemble looked so out of place there on her polished desk amid her red leather blotter, marble quill and ink stand, a stack of pristine books, a stolen hip pouch and nicked dagger, a robust Ferelden tea service, and a porcelain halla statuette, its antlers and hooves gilded in the Orlesian style. There was only one person who would do something so . . . elfy.

Iralen sank into her chair. She reached for the rose. Its delicate, sweet scent reminded her of home. Wild roses just like this one grew in clusters by the river. In an instant, she was transported there, seven years old, hiding in the bushes while the other women washed laundry. Twelve years old, perched in a tree, holding her breath and a nocked arrow while a great bear ambled by below. Eighteen, gritting her teeth through the blood-writing, lest any sound escape her and cause Keeper Deshanna to halt the ritual and shame Iralen in the eyes of her clan.

All other cares forgotten, Iralen pulled the package closer, undid the vine, and unfolded the leaf, large as a dinner plate when laid flat. Inside, plump blackberries lay around a tiny earthenware crock, its cork sealed with maroon wax.

Delighted, she hunted up a letter opener and popped open the crock, which held a dollop of honey. She dipped a berry in its golden goodness. Blackberries had always been her weakness. How many summers had she snuck back into camp, her gathering-basket empty, her mouth and hands stained deep purple? How many times had she been punished for eating the harvest, only to be sent out to do it again the very next day?

She ate another berry, giddy. Solas must have found these on the Plains, and picked them for her. An apology, maybe, for leaving the way he had? A thank-you gift for trying to help his friend? He couldn't have known blackberries were her favorite.

He couldn't possibly have known, and yet . . .

She licked the last of the honey from her fingers, feeling, for the moment, like a young elf woman. Not like the Inquisitor at all.

Still, there was no escaping reality for long. She gathered up leaf and vine and threw them on the fire. If only there was some way she could return his kindness. Some way that she could help ease the sadness that hovered constantly around him like an agitated Cole.

She plucked the rose off the desktop, turning it in her fingers so that she could admire the five white petals, the pink heart. Then she opened one of her books, placed the bloom between the pages, and closed the book. A secret. A promise. She put the book in a drawer, resolving to ask him more about his journeys through the Fade the next time she saw him. Perhaps, if he talked about the ancient battlefields and the ruins he had explored, it would give him a taste of home, too.

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 _ **A/N:** Dragon Age: Inquisition Omake Gekijō Presents: "A Taste of Home."_

 _This story went through so many changes in between idea and final draft!_

 _I originally wanted to write something funny. My notes told me that Iralen is an elfy elf, but just not in the way Sera thinks. I imagined hijinks galore. That's why Sera seems to be so much on Iralen's mind. The title was "Favorite Things."_

 _Once I started writing, however, Blackwall snuck in, and the mood decidedly cooled. I'm not very good at writing humor after all. I toyed with the idea of homesickness. Do the elves have a term for that? I wanted to show how much Iralen belongs to life in the forest, away from human trappings like stone castles and servants. She does "Inquisitor" so well it's hard to remember she came from a very different background._

 _Then I realized that I was reaching too far, trying to fit in too much. I decided to focus on one thing. Her very favorite thing. Blackberries. I feel like Solas would do something small like this, where no one would ever see it but her._

 _The final piece has to do with the fact that sometimes, I just don't know who to send on war table operations!_

 _Disclaimer: These oneshots don't happen in any kind of chronological order. They're written as the ideas come to me._

 _Reviews are lovely! Won't you leave one, please? My everlasting thanks go to **Blackpantherlilies** and **The Night Whisperer** for their reviews of "Little Brother!"_

 _Ever yours,_

 _Anne_


	3. Word Games

**Word Games**

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Iralen couldn't tell when the conversation shifted from idle talk to a contest.

She scrubbed out a skillet with coarse salt and oil, preparing to put it away for the night. Their campfire crackled and snapped in the darkness. Her mind wandered, preoccupied with what they would find in Redcliff on the morrow. What had prompted Grand Enchanter Fiona to approach her that day in Val Royeaux? Perhaps her invitation meant the mages were willing to lend their aid to the Inquisition. Iralen slipped the skillet into her saddlebag, and hoped so. Meanwhile, Varric and Solas spoke in low voices while Cassandra cleaned the shield resting across her lap, all of them slowing down after a day of battling through the dregs of the rebel mages, rogue templars, and faux bandits.

In fact, Iralen might not have noticed the change at all, except, "If you would put the branch upon the fire, we might a little more light have to see," didn't sound like the Varric she knew. Nor did his falsely hearty, slightly sarcastic voice. It took her a second to realize what was wrong.

"I'm sorry, what was that you said just now?" she asked in the same style, smiling.

Both men looked at her, surprised. Solas grinned.

"Ah, excellent," the elf said, his voice warm and genuine. "Lavellan renews the spirit of our debate. Shall we proceed?"

"You in need of some assistance, Chuckles?"

 _That_ sounded like Varric.

"On the contrary, I am merely expressing my hope that Lavellan could provide a worthy challenge, since you are not," Solas loftily said, not missing a beat.

"Yeah, you can just keep telling yourself that," the dwarf grumbled.

So it went, the apostate and the storyteller firing words back and forth as if they were crossbow bolts. Solas slid smoothly around Varric, his lyrical speech second nature. One of the many things about him that Iralen thought so remarkable. Varric, however, kept advancing, stolid and earthy. From his mouth, the galloping rhythm threatened to turn _real_ , a lady in her smallclothes rather than the flowing dresses Solas preferred. No wonder his serials were so popular! He _was_ clever. Solas was loving it, too. He was also giving no quarter, and Varric began to sweat.

"What spirit crossed the Veil to help a pious man?" he demanded. "Ain't nothing but weird shit breeds in the Fade. Truth saturates Andraste's words."

"A truth shortened by half," Solas disagreed. "Fear blinds your man. Imagine: unbound beauty, unfettered wisdom, faith and compassion which live, _breathe_."

"What are they doing?" Cassandra asked under her breath, her voice gently cracking the way it always did when she was stressed. Iralen could tell their companions were genuinely worrying the Seeker, whose fingers clenched around her polishing rag. "Has some mage taken control of their minds?"

"It's fine, Cassandra. Male bonding," Iralen said out of the side of her mouth.

Cassandra blinked. She tilted her head like a mabari hound trying to figure something out. She was obviously thinking of males drinking too much beer, lying about partners bedded, and comparing the size of swords, and utterly failing to see how this genteel behavior applied. Then, when Varric said, with a sly sideways wink at her, "We did not flee the snares of tyranny; wisdom is certainly in short supply," she made a face.

"Are you sure? Maybe they are just foolish," she said in a disgruntled whisper.

Iralen smothered a laugh. Trust Varric to take a shot at Cassandra every chance he got. "Positive."

"I'll have to take your word for it. Get some rest, Herald. We don't know what awaits us in Redcliff," Cassandra said, shaking her head as if to say Iralen would have to clean up this mess on her own. The Seeker swaggered toward her bedroll, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Good night," Iralen said.

She scooted over to her tent, settling herself in its opening. She hugged her legs to her chest, resting her chin on them, and watched Solas and Varric talk. The firelight explored the campsite, turning Varric's hair more orange than ever, glinting on his ear piercings and the heavy chain he wore around his thick neck. Everything about his short, stocky frame and broad shoulders suggested strength and solidarity, like the Stone from which his people originally came. Solas, on the other hand, was a study in his opposite: tall and lean, his hands and ears long, his entire being as graceful as an elfroot stalk, like any child of the woodlands.

Time stretched out, and the night quieted except for their strange, spoken song, Varric's part rusty as a hinge, Solas's soft as a lullaby. Iralen's eyes closed while she listened. She smiled as she let Solas's smooth speech wash over her. His accent was subtle, impossible to pin down but very pleasing to the ear. She could listen to him for hours, drifting between the worlds of wakefulness and sleep. The words lost meaning until only the rhythm remained.

And then Varric faltered.

"To lift the boot of justice . . . sticky fingers . . . No. A coat charmed, a pocket emptied – dah!" He broke off with a weary snarl. "Do you _ever_ lose?"

"From time to time." Solas never shrugged, but Iralen could hear it in his voice. "It is not a state that I often permit."

" _Permit_? My brain is about to call in sick."

"You did yourself credit, wordsmith."

"Right." Varric crawled into his bedroll without a backward glance, obviously in no mood to play nice. "You've got first watch, you pedantic bastard."

The game was truly over, so it was with sincere regret that Iralen finished the last line for him: "Well, shit."

Across the fire, Varric snorted.

She rolled onto her back, first fastening the tent flaps behind her before she settled into her own bedding. The darkness pressed close.

Solas chuckled, the sound like velvet that brushed against her skin and made her shiver in spite of the warm night. She thought he might have paused outside the tent on his way to sit out the first two hours of the watch.

"Sleep well, lethallan."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Dragon Age: Inquisition Omake Gekijō Presents: "Word Games."_

 _Inspired by the random snatches of conversation that the characters strike up while they are in the field. Also by the inner circle quest, "Well, Shit."_

 _By the way, I in no way mean to trivialize or generalize men through the cliché of "male bonding." I was merely expressing one of Cassandra's shortcomings, as I see it._

 _Disclaimer: I mentioned this before, but iambic pentameter is extremely new to me and I have no other teacher than the internet, so my efforts may not be entirely correct. Also, my apologies to Shakespeare . . ._

 _UGGGHHHH, my stats are still broken! I can't even tell if anyone is reading these. Won't you please leave a review and let me know you're out there? Heaps of gratitude to **Blackpantherlilies** and **The Night Whisperer** , again. Ladies, you're the best! X3_

 _Until next time,_

 _Anne_


	4. Power Struggle

**Power Struggle**

* * *

"Do you see it?"

"No." Iralen frowned. The shard had glowed so brightly through the ocularum, like a blue-white beacon rising against the emerald wall of trees. Since her eyes were larger than a human's, which meant the pupil dilated further, she could usually pinpoint the exact location of a shard. Usually. She scanned the rocky shore at her feet, listening for the shard's telltale chiming. Her party members spread out, combing through the grass with the toes of their boots, but none of them seemed to hear anything, either. Of course, the roar of the nearby waterfall could be to blame for that.

Not for the first time, Iralen cursed the fact that they could not remove the oculara from their creepy pedestals. At first, she'd simply wanted to give the murdered Tranquil's soul some peace by laying it to rest, but later, realized that having an ocularum with her would allow her to find the shards much quicker. The Iron Bull had already tried that, however. He said his hands had gone numb for two full hours after a protective spell knocked him on his ass.

"Should we go back and ask her to show us the way again?" Cole innocently asked.

 _Her_. Iralen closed her eyes and hoped Dorian would keep his mouth shut. The last thing she needed right then was to know the final thoughts of the Tranquil woman who had died simply so that the Venatori could scoop out her brain, stuff a crystal in her empty eye socket, and affix her skull to a post. Iralen thought putting her face to the back of these skulls as if she was putting on a mask in order to use their enchantment was bad enough; no one else could do it, not without the Anchor or blood magic of their own, so she didn't need that burden, as well. _Don't ask, don't ask, please don't ask_ . . .

He didn't. Instead, it was Solas who spoke.

"No," the apostate said, gentle as always with Cole, whom he saw purely as a spirit of compassion in spite of his appearance as a young, unkempt human man. "We do not have time, I am afraid. We must not linger or risk leading danger here. There are Freemen patrols nearby."

"And a giant," Cole agreed. "No. Two giants. They're very hungry."

"Perhaps they'll join us for tea. How wonderful!" Dorian cried.

"Is it?" Cole asked.

"No," Dorian said.

"Oh."

"Maybe it's higher," Iralen said, partly thinking out loud. The shards were always high. Somewhere hard to reach without a lot of jumping, perched on a ledge or across a gap, tucked behind a broken bridge or right there in plain sight, in the middle of a ring of Venatori agents.

She looked around and spied a tree likely to hold her weight. She slung her bow over her shoulder and then swung herself into its lowest branches, hardly disturbing the leaves as she passed. Back home, she spent much of her time off the ground. Safer that way. Easier to sneak up on her prey.

"Do you see anything?" Solas called up to her, his hand pressed to the trunk of the tree.

"Not yet." She climbed higher, feeling the mist stirring her hair as the branches thinned around her. Up there, the waterfall nearly deafened her. The pool was perfectly circular, its sapphire blue depths whipped into frothing white foam at the fall's feet. No shard.

She was sure she had the right place . . .

"Ever wonder why the Venatori went to all that trouble to set up their little horror peepshows and then not bother to claim the prize on the other side?" Dorian asked loudly enough for Iralen to hear. He strutted to the water's edge and crouched down to cup a handful of clear water, his staff cradled in the crook of his arm.

"I mean, _why_? It's like they're trying to _help_ the Inquisition," he went on after taking a drink, wiping his mouth and mustache with his fingertips. He adopted a singsong falsetto. "She's an elf, and these are elfstones that unlock an elf temple, so let's let _her_ have them!"

"Are you complaining?" Solas asked him.

Dorian raised his dark brows. "I'm _worried_. Doesn't this feel like a trap to you?"

"Master is angry," Cole said, his breathy voice climbing an octave. Iralen could barely hear him. He laced his dirty fingers, twisting them as he spoke. "We are taking too much time, spreading ourselves too thin. The ritual is draining, damning, their faces blank like cattle. But _she_ comes. She hunts us, hounds us, harries us, and we're . . . dead."

"Oh, well, when you put it _that_ way."

Talking wasn't helping them find the shard. Frustrated, Iralen settled along the highest branch that could support her. She knew this was the right place. There was the waterfall, pouring like an Orlesian bridal veil between two outcrops of rock that pointed up like a qunari's horns. There was the edge of the cliff, bent over the pool like the lid of a chest, partially blocking the sun, which hit the opposite wall and picked out the roundels of rock – one, two, three. The shore, gray gravel sloping into the pool, caressed by lapping wavelets. The water, churning at one end like a pot boiling over, calming into ripples over . . .

Iralen groaned.

"What is it?" Solas immediately asked, worry pinching his brows together.

She pointed. "I found it."

As one, the three men turned to look at the pool. The bottom dropped sharply on this side. There, fifteen, maybe sixteen feet down, the shard glimmered in shadowy blue sunlight.

"Lovely," Dorian said.

"Is it?"

"No, Cole."

Iralen dropped out of the tree, letting her bent knees and the mossy ground absorb the impact. "Well?" she asked. "Any volunteers?"

Cole visibly brightened. "I've never been swimming before," he said eagerly.

Solas laid a restraining hand on his arm. Iralen wondered if Cole would have jumped in headlong if he hadn't.

"It might be best if you do not overexert yourself at this time," the elf said.

The spirit wilted, scuffing the rocks with his foot. "Do you get to go swimming?" he asked.

Solas opened his mouth, looked at the pool, and then shut it. After a moment, he said, "Perhaps not. The water is deep and fast, and it has been a long time since last I swam."

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then –

"Don't look at me," Dorian said in an outraged tone when the three of them did just that.

"Why not?" Iralen demanded.

The Tevinter mage put his hands on his hips, every inch the pampered noble son, from the proud flare of his nostril to the pointing of his toe. "And get _wet_? Dear woman, I have no intention of wandering around these backwoods with a hair out of place. Do you realize the effort required to look the way I do?"

Iralen frowned again. She wanted to be angry with him, but she couldn't help laughing instead. He always did have that effect on her. "All right, fine. It's up to me. Do me a favor and go make sure we aren't interrupted by any hungry giants."

"My Lady." Dorian swept her an elegant bow and then strode into the trees. The emerald shadows welcomed him with open arms. Within seconds, he was lost from sight.

"I'll go too," Cole offered. He was gone even faster, there one moment and then, with a breeze, not.

Solas didn't budge. "My heart."

"Yes?" Iralen looked up into his serious face, but he didn't answer. Wondering what he was thinking, she put her palm against his smooth, flat cheek, tracing the curve of his full lower lip with her thumb.

He leaned into her touch for the barest moment before he covered her hand with his own and pulled it away. His expression reminded her they were not alone and that he would not risk exposing her to censure. He never allowed public displays of affection, and although it hurt, she tried to respect that.

Sometimes, she wondered if the attraction she felt from him was her imagination.

As if to soften the rebuke, he entwined his fingers with hers and spoke to their joined hands. "I do not like this. I would prefer not to send you alone."

She pulled back. "Do you think I can't handle it?"

"Vhenan," he said impatiently, and his eyes – they smoldered at her. She wasn't prepared at all when he bent and crushed her lips with his. " _I_ cannot handle being apart from you. Go, but please be wary and take care of my heart."

With that, he turned for the trees, and she, flushed and dizzy, could not immediately pull herself together. _Damn him_!

Heaving a sigh, she left the clearing to find a way to the top of the cliff, about twenty feet up. As she hiked, all sign of their passing faded from view.

If she didn't know any better, it would be easy to believe her friends had left her entirely, it was so still and quiet. It felt strange to be alone. The overgrown forest was crawling with red templars, giants, wolves, great bears, and Freemen of the Dales. She needed to focus and collect the shard so she and her companions could move on before one of them, or the high dragon she could hear flapping overhead, decided they looked like easy pickings.

Iralen stripped to her smallclothes behind the swaying green curtain of a weeping willow, leaving her armor, weapons, and clothing in a neat pile at its base. She then stepped to the lip of the cliff, staring into the shining blue jewel that was the pool. Sixteen feet was a long way down, so she was counting on the height of her jump to send her most of the way through the water. She took a few quick, deep breaths, backed up, and ran at the edge. She launched herself into space.

Hitting the water felt like landing on stone with her bare feet. She kept her arms tight to her body and let her momentum propel her downward. The water pressed in, dulling sound, robbing her of scent and taste. Once she felt herself slowing, she turned over and kicked hard for the bottom.

The shard was glowing again, apparently glad that someone was coming to claim it. A large chunk had broken off, suggesting that it had fallen into the pool at some point in the past, but the important part was still intact. Iralen picked it up and pushed off the bottom. She rose faster than a thought and burst into the decidedly cooler air of the Graves.

Four Venatori mages pointed their staves at her head.

Iralen said nothing. She treaded water, noting that a sellsword had Dorian at sword point, and, with a fury that made her heart pound, that a gladiator stood menacingly over Solas, who was flat on the ground.

"You will hand over the shard to us, elf," one of the mages snarled through his mask.

"Why would she?" Dorian snapped over his shoulder.

"Because we'll kill you if she doesn't, traitor." A second mage nodded to the sellsword, who pressed the tip of his blade harder into Dorian's kidneys, and Dorian winced.

Panting slightly, Solas pushed himself onto his elbow and licked blood from his lips. He grimaced at the shield looming over him. His staff was lying ten feet away, under the boots of a spellbinder. It looked as though he'd been bowled right over the small ridge behind him.

"Release my friends," Iralen said in a voice so dark that it didn't sound like hers.

"Or what?" the first mage asked, while the others laughed. "We can slit open their throats faster than you can get out of there, Inquisitor."

"Yes, but all I have to do is let go," she said. She held the shard over her head, and though the mage jerked in response, he didn't come nearer. By the way they all stood well back from the shore, Iralen realized that none of them could swim. "This is what you want, isn't it? I'm guessing you were waiting for someone else to retrieve it. It was clumsy of me not to notice you. The shard isn't in very good shape. It won't survive impact with the bottom a second time."

She could practically _see_ her words sink in. Doubt worked its way through the Venatori, causing weapons to sag and glances to stray.

Then two things happened very fast.

From one direction, a steel-eyed Cole leaped out of the shadows, daggers flashing, and a mage fell. From the other direction, Tor exploded out of the underbrush and propelled himself, snarling viciously, into the face of the gladiator that had hurt his Solas. The woman never had the chance to scream and crumpled under the white wolf's snapping jaws.

Iralen ducked underwater and watched as a brace of winter chill spells froze the surface. It broke up under the pounding of the waterfall, so she swam unharmed beneath the bobbing blue ice. Then violet lightning lit up the sky, and she knew that Dorian was free.

The next time she surfaced, the Venatori lay dead. Dorian and Cole converged on Solas, who was petting Tor's muzzle reassuringly. The young wolf splayed big, muddy paws on Solas's chest so that he was pressing the elf into the ground, and whined into his face.

"Emma tereva, toror'ai," Solas said faintly.

Tor relaxed, comforted by the elvhen words, and allowed Dorian to help Solas stand. Meanwhile, Iralen climbed soggily out of the pool.

"Thought we'd lost you there, old boy," Dorian said sympathetically.

"Yes. It shames me to have been taken by surprise."

"I could hear them, but I went too far to help. They kept their thoughts quiet. I'm sorry," Cole said. He offered Solas his staff.

"Thank you. I –"

Solas broke off as if he'd abruptly lost his tongue, and Iralen had the satisfaction of seeing him struck utterly dumb at the sight of her, wearing almost nothing and dripping onto the grass. He was not, for once, looking at her face, and that fact warmed her all the way down to her toes. It reminded her of the few kisses he had stolen with a passion that had taken her breath away, a passion she believed she'd dreamed when it was over. There _was_ some feeling beneath that cool façade, after all. Good to know.

Dorian turned around, his puzzlement melting when he saw her. His gray eyes twinkled as he fought back a laugh. "Now, really. I thought you had more sense than this, Lady Inquisitor. Has Madame de Fer taught you nothing? Your appearance is _everything_."

Without hesitation, he removed his outer robe and said, "Come here, you'll catch your death of cold."

Dorian draped the robe over her shoulders, the perfect gentleman. It flapped wetly around her ankles when she approached Solas, who was not looking at her now.

"The water sticks!" Cole cried in delighted wonder.

"Yes, it's rather funny that way," Dorian said, slinging a brown, muscled arm across Cole's skinny shoulders and steering him away.

Iralen paid them no mind. "Solas," she said.

She kept her hands lax at her sides, shoulders thrown back under the borrowed robe, and waited for him to give her his attention. He did, head cocked to the side as he assessed her mood, the space between them.

She raised her chin. "How can you expect me to keep your heart safe when you do not have the same regard for mine?"

He caught her meaning immediately, and his eyes widened. "Of course. Yes, you are right. I had not thought of it in that way. Forgive me."

"Try to remember it," she said, her heart constricting in her chest at his reddened cheek and the swelling of his lip, but she kept her distance, striving for the aloofness that he had mastered. He wasn't the only one with something to offer, after all.

"I shall," he said; she didn't miss the way a corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk as if he knew exactly what was going through her mind.

"Thank you." Iralen turned on her heel and headed for the trail that would take her back to the top of the cliff and her dry clothes, grinning, the shard clutched to her chest and Tor trotting at her side.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Dragon Age: Inquisition Omake Gekijō Presents: "Power Struggle."_

 _Seriously, why_ did _the Venatori go to all that trouble to set up the oculara and then leave the shards for me to gather? It's the one quest that seems too contrived to me._

 _Since the shards are always placed_ up _, I decided to place one_ down _and see what happened._

 _Please review, my darlings! It drives me nuts when I can't see my stats, lol. I give the best of my love to **The Night Whisperer** , **Grand Admiral Pellaeon** , and **Blackpantherlilies** for their kind reviews on "Word Games."_

 _Ever Yours,_

 _Anne_


	5. Enough

**Enough**

* * *

"To good fights!"

She was slurring by then, her tongue thick and numb in her mouth, her head so light it threatened to float away. When her forehead hit her forearm, resting on the bar counter, she was confused. She stared, mesmerized, at the candlelight swimming across the polished grain.

From the top of a mountain, Bull roared his approval and raised his mug high. "To bad drinks!"

He drank. Iralen drank. Or, she tried to. She slopped most of what was left in her qunari-sized mug down her front.

This should have upset her. Iralen frowned down at her soggy white scarf, the . . . swill . . . splashed across her leather vest, and then she started giggling.

Once she started giggling, she couldn't stop.

" _You're_ done," Cabot announced. The bartender reached over and yanked the mug away from her.

Iralen stared at her empty hand – the right one, the skin pink and unmarked, the way it was supposed to be. She thought about demanding her mug back, but the aftertaste of whatever it had held changed her mind. Her throat convulsed, and she coughed over the remembered burn.

"Ah, don't mind him," Bull said, glaring murderously after a man who was half his height while she gasped and spluttered at his elbow. Under his breath, he added, "Supercilious asshole."

Cabot heard. He banged a cupboard shut. "Hey. You. Six silver. Then get her out of here."

" _Six_?" Bull belched. "I've had dragon piss that tasted better."

"Idiot. That _was_ dragon piss."

Iralen giggled and groaned at the same time. "Thought so," she said.

"Gotta say, Inquisitor, didn't think you'd be able to hold down maraas-lok. You've got a set of stones for an elf," Cabot drawled, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned his hairy arms on the bar and added in a conspiratorial stage whisper: "Leave it to me; I'll be sure to spread the story."

At that, Bull slammed his huge gray hand on the counter and left the coin behind, and probably a few coin-shaped dents in the shiny wood. "He's right. Time to go."

"You can thank me later," the swarthy dwarf called after them, apparently unaware that the leader of Bull's Chargers was contemplating skewering him like a nug on a spit. " _Inquisitor_ ," he added with his customary, grinning sneer.

"Don't worry, Bull. He's harmless," Iralen said.

"Come on, boss, you gotta walk. I can't carry you back," Bull responded, which made absolutely no sense at all until Iralen realized that they were no longer in Herald's Rest. In fact, they were rounding the perpetual puddle in the courtyard and heading for the long flight of steps into Skyhold's main building. She glanced down, distracted by the moonlight flashing off the glazed surface of the water. Her legs were moving, but she wasn't _walking_ so much as _riding_ on Bull's arm.

"You can so. Carry me," Iralen commanded.

"No-o-o," Bull said, but he tightened his grip around her waist all the same. He glanced at the sky, black and frosted with stars. Maryden's singing could be faintly heard floating from the brightly-lit tavern's open windows, but the courtyard was otherwise silent. They stumbled into the hall together. "Keep your head up and your voice down. Do you have any idea what time it is? If anyone sees you like this we'll be in big trouble."

They made it five and a half more steps, and then –

"Inquisitor!"

Bull gave an ox-like snort that sounded like, " _Busted_ ," and Iralen realized he wasn't entirely sober, either. They both cracked up laughing. Bull's howls echoed around the vaulted ceiling.

Josephine froze in the middle of locking her office door in what was probably a vain attempt to keep Sera out of it, obviously just finished working for the night. Her shocked expression morphed into one of resigned disgust. She narrowed her dark eyes at Bull. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing. She is basalit-an!" he cried triumphantly.

"I'm not familiar with that term. What does –" Josephine began, but Iralen shushed her.

"Don't," she said, her mind clearing for the first time since that first caustic drink – was that what a dragon's throat felt like when it breathed fire? No wonder they were so cranky. With a tremendous effort, she stood away from Bull's support. "Don't ask him what it means. It'll give you nightmares, I promise." The urgency coloring her voice lost traction when her sentence dissolved in another giggle.

"Nightmares?" Josephine asked, perplexed.

Iralen thought back to the tavern.

 _"Oh, taarsidath-an halsam?" Bull had asked in response to her question. "Closest translation would be, 'I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, thinking about this with great respect.' "_

Never again would she ask him to tell her what he'd said if he said it in qunlat. Iralen squeezed her eyes shut, trying – unsuccessfully – to clear the unsettling mental image from her head. "You have no idea," she said ruefully.

Fiery little Josephine seemed to take Iralen's inebriated condition as a challenge and squared her shoulders under their ruffles of gold lamé, glaring up at Bull. Bull actually backed up a step.

"I would appreciate it if you _didn't_ get the Inquisitor stumbling drunk in public," the Antivan said acidly.

"Public?" the qunari scoffed. "No one's here! Keep your hair on, Ambassador."

Josephine's breath escaped in a gusty sigh. "Really, this is hardly appropriate –"

"She didn't think it so bad."

"That isn't the point!"

Iralen listened to them squabble from far away because it was back, the warm, floaty feeling, stealing through her limbs and leaving them sort of sloshy. Nothing either of her friends said seemed to matter much, but that was wrong, wasn't it? She put a hand to her forehead. What _had_ been in that mug?

"Oh! Forgive me, Your Worship. I did not mean to raise my voice," Josephine said, instantly contrite.

Iralen didn't realize she'd started sagging to the floor until four hands – two gigantic, two petite – grabbed her.

"I can take her from here," Josephine said tartly. "Thank you. Your services are no longer required."

The big hands vanished.

"See you later, boss," Bull rumbled.

"Come." Josephine helped Iralen make her slow way to her quarters, murmuring soothingly under her breath. She left Iralen in the middle of her room, promising to have something sent up momentarily. The door at the bottom of the stairs shut with a quiet click. Iralen stared blankly into the shadows. She was going to have a wicked hangover in the morning. When was the last time she'd overstepped her limits like this? She couldn't remember.

The ever-burning fire gave the only light. She cleaned herself up by its dim flickering. Everything made her impatient, including the pull of her hair against her scalp, so she undid the braid and let her white-blonde hair flow loose around her shoulders. She rinsed her mouth, but that didn't help. While buttoning up her clean white tunic, it occurred to her that, in spite of the snow falling outside, the room was insufferably hot. She unlocked one of the large glass doors leading to her balcony and pushed it open.

The snow brushed her cheeks like insect wings. The minutes passed in solitary silence at the top of "the place where the sky was held back." Then the door clicked once more, though no step sounded on the stair.

Iralen went back inside, expecting whatever servant Josephine had rustled up, but she pulled up short.

It was Solas.

"Inquisitor," he greeted her formally in a voice as soft as the snow itself. "Forgive my interruption, but I heard voices downstairs. May I?"

Iralen didn't answer. The alcohol was still burning through her system, making her feel loose and disconnected from the Inquisitor's daily trappings. She crossed the room, staring hungrily at him. Everything about him appealed to her: The small, pocked scar above his right eyebrow, his baldness, the beardless grace of elven men. Even his lack of vallaslin, which she had never valued in her lovers, was as dear as the dimple in his chin. He was so beautiful, but so unlike any man she had known before.

She did not yet know what they were to each other, but whatever it was could not be reversed. Not for her.

He let her approach, probably not sure of her intention. His hesitation allowed her to sneak past his guard, reach up, and kiss him.

At first, he returned the kiss with a heat that drove every other thought out of her head. Her world contracted until it consisted only of Iralen and Solas, and the fire of his lips on hers.

All too soon, the passion cooled. He pushed her gently, composedly away, his large hands settling against her waist.

"Please, Solas. Don't refuse me," Iralen breathed. She ran her hands down his arms until they came to rest in the crooks of his elbows. He had chosen to come here rather than return to his precious sleep. Tonight, for the first time, he had chosen _her_ over the Fade. She clenched her fingers, bunching the rough fabric of his sleeves in her fists. The question that she hadn't dared let herself think burst out of her, her control snapping under her frustration. "Aren't you tired of sleeping alone?"

She felt him go rigid with shock, his hands tightening, becoming a restraint rather than an embrace. Rejection washed through her, hot and damning, bringing back all of her impatience from a few moments before. With a wordless snarl, _she_ pushed away.

Arms crossed, she marched to the fireplace and stared determinedly into the flames.

"Now is not the time, vhenan," he said to her back, sounding truly regretful. "I told you there were . . . considerations."

"Haven't you considered them?" she asked, unable to keep the pleading note out of her voice.

"Not tonight," he repeated. "Not when you are not yourself."

Well, she couldn't argue that. The room had begun to sway sickeningly around her, and the warm, courageous feeling brought on by the burn in her throat was congealing into weariness.

There was a timid knock on the door.

"Come in," Iralen called before thinking it through. As the scullion climbed the stairs, a tray in her hands, Iralen shot an apologetic glance at Solas. The last thing she wanted heaped on him was the scorn of the household for being caught in the Inquisitor's quarters so late at night. People talked about them enough as it was – hadn't she overheard a pair of Orlesian nobles coyly planning her wedding for her the other day?

The scullion hesitated, her mouth popping open with some kind of comprehension. Solas seemed calm as ever, however, gesturing for the serving girl to place the tray on the table near the divan.

The elven maid looked from him to Iralen with wide eyes, but she merely said, "Lady Montilyet asked me to bring this to you, Lady Inquisitor."

She bowed and left, scurrying like a little green mouse.

"I'm sorry about that," Iralen said, kneading her forehead, and gestured after the scullion, who was long gone with whatever conclusions she'd drawn. She leaned her forehead into the mantelpiece. "Even though I have no idea what we were drinking, I couldn't tell Bull no."

"No," Solas agreed. His arms wound gently around her from behind, and he spoke near her ear. "It is one of the things that makes you so remarkable, your kindness and willingness to meet disparate people on their terms. You would have shamed The Iron Bull if you had refused."

Pleasure stole through her body at his praise. She leaned into his embrace, reveling in it.

"If it's not too much to ask, will you stay?" she asked. "I would like to talk."

"Talking can be a pleasing diversion," he said, agreeing again. "Besides, it would be rude of me to refuse Josephine's hospitality."

"Her hospitality?"

He pressed his lips to her shoulder, and then said, "There are two cups."

He sounded as if he was holding back laughter when he released her and moved over to the table. Iralen stared at the tray. Sure enough, two teacups were placed upside-down on their saucers. With one hand resting in the small of his back, Solas lifted the lid off the steaming teapot in order to examine its contents.

"No, it's all right, you don't have to," Iralen said, moving to stop him, because she knew of his aversion to tea, especially the caffeinated kind she preferred.

Solas stopped her with a smile. "Be at ease, my heart. It is milk."

"Really?" She peered into the pot herself. Milk! Sweetened with honey, by the scent. Josephine's idea of a hangover cure – or, judging by the two cups, her tacit approval of Solas's company.

Iralen didn't usually laugh out loud, but she couldn't stop the giggle that bubbled past her lips. Hot, sweet milk, the perfect bedtime drink for an unruly child! Beside her, Solas chuckled, which made her laugh harder. They grinned at each other.

"Shall I pour?" he asked.

"Please." Iralen sat and waited for her cup. When she accepted it from him, he sat next to her, curling one leg under the other. The divan was small; his knee pressed against her thigh.

"Tell me more of your journeys through the Fade," she said, content now to let him have his peace.

"Gladly. What do you wish to know?"

She took a sip of her milk, considering. Her favorite stories were always – "Tell me of a memory."

"There was once an Avvar who believed he could speak to his arrows, tell them where to strike," he said at once, as if he'd prepared this story beforehand. "A strange kind of magic, for their kind. He gloried in his skill, never knowing it came from a spirit of competition . . ."

Solas talked long into the night, until Iralen, drooping and drowsy, nearly dropped her cup. By then, the fire burned so low that its light was almost gone. He took her cup carefully and replaced it on the tray, and then tugged her across his lap. He laid back on the divan, cradling her to his chest. His long legs tangled with hers over the armrest. She put her ear to his tunic so that she could hear the beating of his heart. After a moment, his fingers threaded into her loose hair, pressing her close. She smiled.

Whatever his considerations were, right then, they didn't matter. He stroked her hair, urging her to rest, to sleep, and she, listening to the proof that he was _real_ beating so strong and steady beneath her cheek, decided that it was enough.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Dragon Age: Inquisition Omake Gekijō Presents: "Enough."_

 _Part of why I fell in love with Solavellan was the sadness that never quite went away throughout their brief, chaste romance. It saturated almost every aspect of interactions between them, especially when we finally found out the truth about him. (I can't be the only one who cried.) I know there had to be more conversations between them than the game allowed. This is how I imagine my Iralen would have dealt with – not quite disappointment in, but perhaps confusion about – her distant, secretive lover._

 _Also, I wrote this because getting stumbling drunk with The Iron Bull in public had to have consequences somewhere. That scene was so funny. Solas, you win the grand prize!_

 _My stats are working again, yay! I'm so sorry this one took longer to post - I rewrote it several times because it just wouldn't come out right, but I think I've got it nailed down. My everlasting thanks go, once again, to **The Night Whisperer** , **Blackpantherlilies** , and the very brave and kind **Lady Aurora Nocturne** for reviewing!_

 _If I don't talk to any of you before then, I hope you have a very Merry Christmas! Or, simply, my love and well-wishes here in this new winter season. :3_

 _Anne_


	6. Cooking on the Trail

**Cooking on the Trail**

* * *

Iralen never shared the communal cooking pot. Quietly, she built her own fire and prepared her ingredients, counting on food to distract the others from her strange withdrawal every evening. Tor lay content half in and half out of her tent, gnawing the marrow out of a haunch he'd already picked clean. The sharp cracks of his teeth in the bone matched the snap and crackle of the cookfires.

Iralen glanced up at the Iron Bull and Sera, arguing over who got the larger share of the meat bubbling away in the large, cast iron pot between them. Their spirits were higher than ever, doubtless a result of the mission she'd selected them for. A smack, a shout, and Sera ran off giggling, stew juice streaming down her chin, Bull in hot pursuit. They tore around the camp, kicking up enough dust to raise a displeased outcry from the scouts, who were trying to eat their own dinners or sleep off a long shift. To Bull and Sera, _spirit_ and _demon_ were synonymous – but they were good at what they did, and Iralen had the feeling she would need all the help she could get to free Solas's friend.

She carefully took a waxed paper-wrapped bundle out of her pack. Kneeling by the much-smaller pot she used, she fanned a handful of thin yellow sticks into the boiling water.

Solas, who usually disappeared around dinnertime, seemed to deem it wiser to stay in the Inquisition camp with Keeper Hawen's clan so close. There had already been some "flat-ear" comments flung at his back in the last two days, and even his patience was wearing thin. "May I join you?" he asked.

"Of course." She wished he would more often. She smiled at him through the rising steam, and he lowered his eyebrows, watching her.

"An unusual choice for one of our people," he observed. "Is that Antivan cuisine?"

"They call it pasta," she affirmed. She swirled a wooden spoon through the noodles, patiently waiting for them to soften and submerge completely. "My clan once ran across an Antivan sailor so addled with the wasting memories that he couldn't return home."

"You had more contact with humans than most Dalish," he remarked. She glanced at him, but his face was smooth, expression serene. It was nice to know that he wasn't going to hold the bad manners of her people against her.

"We saw no reason not to be peaceable, especially when the humans outnumbered us," Iralen said. In spite of the attitude of some of her clan, she had never minded making contact with human villages. At her Keeper's behest, she was always the spokesperson. Humans were loud, and smelly, but they could be fair when they wanted, and there was only so much land to go around. "The sailor's daughter made the pasta. We used to trade with her because, dried, it travels so well. All of my clan took a liking to it. Josephine was able to procure some for me."

From the other side of the tents, Bull gave a roar that let everyone know his stolen dinner was resting comfortably in Sera's stomach. A few halla that had wandered too close bounded for cover in quick, white leaps, vanishing in the brush like moonbeams behind clouds.

Solas settled cross-legged on the ground, unperturbed. "And the sauce?"

"Solanum," she said, lifting the lid of the saucepan for him, which released a tantalizing curl of scented steam into the dusty air. The ripe, red fruit simmered in its own juices, breaking apart easily with pokes of her spoon. "Oil of olives," she went on, adding the ingredients as she spoke, all of them standard fare that existed just as readily in a pack as in a pantry, save the solanum, which she had foraged that afternoon off sun-drenched vines in abandoned Orlesian gardens. "Salt. Garlic. Red pepper."

"Oregano. Interesting." Solas sniffed appreciatively, and then reached for his pack. He dug around in it for a moment before coming up with a bit of rolled leather. Out of the bundles of dried and fresh herbs, which he gathered as they traveled, he selected a large sprig of leafy green with purplish veins. "Basil," he explained, holding it out for her to examine. "A member of the mint family."

At her willing nod, he crumbled the herb into the sauce with long, aristocratic fingers. He then claimed a chunk of the hard bread for them to share that everyone in the Inquisition's army hated, and helped her ladle the noodles and sauce on their trenchers. They reclined side by side against a boulder releasing the day's heat as the night cooled in companionable silence.

Iralen was thrilled. She kept sneaking sidelong glances at him from under her lashes, which he pretended to ignore. According to her kitchen staff back at Skyhold, Solas subsisted on very little. Elven appetites as a whole were less demanding than those of the other races in Thedas, so she had never given it much thought. Still, it was nice that he had chosen to join her this evening.

"Were you able to sense your friend?" she asked after a minute or two.

"No," Solas said sadly. "There is too much unrest here. The presence of the undead obscures it."

"We'll find it," she said earnestly, and she believed it. "Tomorrow. I promise you."

He smiled at her, the firelight bright on his face. "Thank you."

"So, what's for grub?" huffed a disgruntled Bull as he plopped onto the ground next to Solas.

"Excellent, are we on?" Sera asked, rubbing her hands together. She flopped next to Iralen.

"How can you still be hungry?" Bull asked her, aggrieved. "You ate my dinner as well as yours."

"What, that? It was just a bit of a nosh," Sera said. She reached for the ladle, but Bull snatched it away from her. Immediately, she pointed at Iralen. "Nu-uh, the Inquisitor is _sharing_. Give it here."

Bull held it above his head, out of her reach, lifted the lid to the saucepan, and gave a wary sniff. His craggy face puckered like an apple left too long in the sun. "What's this? There's no meat."

"What?" Sera dove for the pan.

Bull put his huge hand in her face and pushed her onto her rear end. "There's no _meat_."

"And you're _eating_ it?" Sera cried in disbelief, goggling at Iralen.

"I was trying to," Iralen said. She lowered her plate, and waited for the inevitable interrogation. Her friends did not disappoint her.

"This isn't a real meal," Bull said, scratching his head. "You don't have to ration tonight. There's plenty of meat left over from the snoufleurs."

"I didn't want any," Iralen said, with another sidelong glance at Solas. This look, he returned.

"The elvhen refrained from the consumption of flesh," he said.

Sera burst out laughing. "But we aren't elv _hen_ ," she said, making a mockery of the word. "I eat meat. Know why? Because it's delicious. _Dee-lii-shiiss_."

"I don't think it is," Iralen said, but then she pursed her lips. She didn't want to say more than that, about how the thought of putting the cooked flesh of an animal in her mouth was as vile as the stink of corpses. She didn't know why she felt that way. She always had, for as long as she could remember. Once, as a very young girl, she'd dreamed a bear hunted her down. Not long ago, she'd faced the terrifying possibility of being eaten by a high dragon. For her to eat another living creature? Never.

"You're a hunter," Sera said, on the verge of breaking into more laughter.

Iralen sighed. "Yes."

"You kill animals for a living."

"Yes."

"And you won't eat them because –?"

Iralen frowned. She wouldn't eat them precisely because she was a hunter. It had nothing to do with the shape of her ears or the place of her birth. She didn't mind if others partook. She took lives in order to keep her clan alive, but that didn't mean she had to take more than that. She hunted. She killed. She offered prayers of thanks. And she didn't eat meat.

Bull eyed her with his one good eye, then stood up and whacked Sera in the back of the head. "Come on," he said gruffly. "We'll try Harding. She's usually got some extra."

"Beat you there," Sera said. She took off again, her energy seemingly inexhaustible.

Bull didn't follow her right away. Over his shoulder, he offered Iralen a crooked grin. "Makes no difference to me one way or the other, boss. Sorry to bother you."

He lumbered off.

Iralen sighed, pushing her food around her trencher with waning interest. Bull may not have understood, not about her eating and not about Solas's friend, but he was one of the most accepting people she'd ever met, qunari or no. Sera, however . . . why did it hurt so much that another elf didn't understand?

"Do not let it trouble you overmuch," Solas said, breaking into her thoughts when he laid a hand on her arm. "Sera has wandered so far off the path she is nearly unrecognizable, even to herself. Listen to your heart, for it speaks true, and I shall always be glad to share your fire."

Iralen smiled her thanks and resumed eating. An unwilling Tal-Vashoth. A city elf who may as well be human. A Dalish hunter who would not eat her kills. And a spirit of wisdom. All collected by a gentle apostate the same way he collected his herbs and called "friend."

There were worse things to be.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Dragon Age: Inquisition Omake Gekijō Presents: "Cooking on the Trail."_

 _So many disparate thoughts came together for this one. The Solas Romanced tarot card shows him petting a tree, and I can just imagine him wandering around while he's awake, talking to various plants and collecting samples. The card also features a white wolf, which was the inspiration for Toror'ai. When I learned that Solas doesn't eat much, that sort of extended to Iralen. I like oddities, and having a vegetarian hunter tickled my fancy. I figure that in a world with so little technology, torn by war and natural disasters, "waste" is an abhorrent concept – which would include refusing to eat any food presented. I feel like Iralen's aversion to meat, however, is something deep-seated in her, something she doesn't understand, but that maybe Solas does, and that could be part of the reason he's physically attracted to her even though she's biologically different._

 _I apologize for taking so long to update this story. I got stuck on the next tidbit until I finally realized that I couldn't tell that particular story well or originally. I threw the idea out and moved on to this one. I have just two more oneshots planned! I do hope you'll stay until the end, Dear Readers._

 _So, news! I changed the cover image for "Grace" to the Solas Romanced tarot card, and I've created a YouTube channel. There, I have begun to post clips of my gameplay (mostly that just interest me for one reason or another). I'll probably put up one a day. Please feel free to check it out if you'd like to see Inquisitor Iralen in action! The link is in my profile ~ :3._

 _Reviewer Thanks! I truly could not do any of this without you. **The Night Whisperer** , **Blackpantherlilies** , and **Shilyn**. You guys rock!_

 _Ever Yours,_

 _Anne_


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